


a failing star

by flowersforgraves



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:57:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersforgraves/pseuds/flowersforgraves
Summary: It's a bet. Of all things it's a fucking bet.





	a failing star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lucymonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/gifts).

> dubcon / noncon is between the twins

It's a fucking bet. Of all things it's a fucking bet. 

The stakes had been a week of doing whatever the other says with no complaining, so when Murph lost he expected to do all the shitty chores, maybe suck Connor off a couple times, let Connor fuck him harder than usual. 

What he's not expecting is being cuffed and collared and humiliated and demeaned. 

In their shitty little apartment, Connor tells him he's not allowed to wear clothes. It's -- Murph is pretty sure Connor thinks it's funny. but he's cold, and he's never been body-confident the way Connor is, and Connor is treating him more like a disobedient dog than a brother. He doesn't get to sleep in a bed. Connor keeps him on the floor, fitful sleep caught in a series of short catnaps. He doesn't speak to anyone except Connor, and he doesn't get to disagree. Connor fucks him, uses him to get off, and doesn't let Murphy come -- at first Murph thinks it's going to be hard to get through the week without any distracting orgasms, and then Connor hits him harder, hard enough to make him sick and too hard to be pleasurable on any level. 

He cries, a lot. The first couple days he doesn't bother to hide it, because maybe crying will make Connor ease up. But it doesn't, Connor just tells him to shut up and take it, that he doesn't want to see Murph cry. So he's quiet about it, hides his face and bites his lip to try to muffle the sobs.

Connor checks his watch at midnight on Saturday, tells him, “Your week's up. Want me to get you off?” He's already reaching for Murphy's cock, expecting to just go back to usual.

Murphy doesn't move. It's not that he doesn't believe Connor, he just -- it's easier to stay, to make sure. He shakes his head, but he doesn't push Connor away. He's gotten used to being quiet and letting Connor do what he wants now, after a week of being completely stripped of agency.

Connor shrugs. “Your loss,” he says, and turns away to go sit on the couch.

Murphy still stays. Kneeling naked at the foot of Connor's bed is fucking horrible, but he doesn't want to be punished. It's almost ten minutes of Connor sneaking glances at him before Connor says, “It's over, Murph. You know you can put clothes on, right?”

He dives for his jeans, dressing as fast as he can in case Connor changes his mind. He's still not talking, because even though he knows Connor says it's over, he can still feel teeth marks on his neck, bruises on his back and ribs, blood and come in his mouth, the awful creeping self-hate and conviction that Connor doesn't want to stop. It's better if he just stays quiet and takes what Connor gives him.

He can feel Connor's eyes on him, but he's dressed in jeans, socks, boots, tee shirt, and throws his jacket on for good measure. He wraps himself tighter, and he wants to sleep -- he's exhausted and miserable and hungry and in pain, but he doesn't know if he can do that anymore. Connor means anxiety and subservience now, not warmth and safety.

“Cold, Murph?” Connor asks, and there's something in his voice that Murphy doesn't like. 

He shakes his head, still can't bring himself to talk. He goes to sit on the floor at Connor's feet like he has before, but the concern in Connor's eyes reminds him he needs to act like everything's fine, like the last week hasn't happened. Instead he sits on the couch, as far away from Connor as he can without making it obvious.

It’s not supposed to happen so fast. He’s not supposed to be scared of Connor after a week. It’s supposed to take longer than a week to learn to associate Connor’s demands with pain and tears.

“Murph.” Connor shuts off the tv, leans forward with elbows on his knees. “Are you okay?”

What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? He nods, biting his lip hard. He’s still not ready to talk, but he needs to make sure Connor knows he’s willing to go along with whatever.

Lying to his twin about that is one thing; suppressing the instinctive flinch when Connor goes to kiss him is another. Connor pulls back, genuine concern in his eyes. “Murph, is -- this is about the bet?” It’s only half a question, because Connor’s not _stupid_. He can put the pieces together.

Murphy leans in and tries to kiss him, a desperate distraction. Connor intercepts him first, hand over Murphy’s mouth to prevent him from trying again before sliding back off the couch and onto the floor. “Murph, I -- fuck, Murph, I didn’t mean -- shit. Shit, I’m sorry, Murph. I should’ve -- should’ve known it wasn’t right. I -- fuck. Shit. Fuck!” He slams a clenched fist into the floor, and Murphy flinches again.

“Fuck,” Connor says again, quietly. “I’m so sorry, Murph. I -- whatever you need. Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you. I’m sorry.”

Murphy just curls in on himself further.


End file.
